The Dreams of Ruins
by XantiumRising
Summary: Verse is Shattered Glass. The war is finally over after years and years. There has been great losses on each side, wounds that all, whether Autobot or Decepticon feel.


The Dreams of Ruins

Even after another ten years, it was still much the same as when he had first visited, except now he was alone and no longer on the run from the Autobots. Ten years had not made much of a difference upon that ruin, there, just outside of Kaon, along those rusted valleys and mountains, hidden in the multitudes of caves in the largest face. It seemed like yesterday, and he knew the way precisely, gliding in towards that largest opening that had once been the shuttle bay. Ten years ago, scaffolding had still clung to the outer facing, rigging and parts for cranes as well, but now it was gone. Only large disks from the anchoring points remained, buried into the rock and metal. Each had a long streak below, deep rust red, followed by one of black from the mineral build up from many an acid rain.

Slowly he entered, transforming before he landed, gently, his pedes creaking upon the floors of the long deserted shuttle bay. There had been no other place for him to go. Especially since all he wanted to do was mourn, now that he could after so many years. Crystal City was gone, there were not even ruins of it left, just a flattened plain where the jewel of Cybertron had once been. Vos was in the throes of celebration, one of the few cities left intact, and that overwhelming happiness of victory just could not find its way into his ember.

Pacing forward, the snowy seeker subbed a flood light, flicking it on, casting light upon the ghosts of the past. The light illuminated all the old smuggling cove's relics and derelicts. There, off in the wide bay, chiseled out of the mountain itself, laid several languishing old shuttles. Out of date even when they were in use here, they seemed positively ancient now. Boxy, angular, and most notably, completely rusted over and covered with a film of oils and substances the likes he didn't deign to figure out. It had been built before his ignition, and abandoned just prior before he had been ignited as an emberling.

Yet, he felt a connection to this place. It was quiet as a tomb, and he had remembered that first time here had made him so very frightened. Yet now, now it was peaceful, even soothing. His audio receptors seemed to notice sounds that were not there, like whispers, in the wind that was whistling about the rock faces. Quietly, he wondered if his long lost lover's voice had joined this ghostly choir as well. Starscream had never quite gotten over that loss, never. It was not from lack of trying, he had taken two lovers after his truest love, but none had ever come close to the affection and bond he had felt for Sunstorm. Some had told him the reason he felt the way he did over Sunstorm was because of the unrequited love there. It was true they had not even known each other a year when Sunstorm was lost, but he did not attribute that to his affection for that seeker.

Quietly, Starscream padded forward, towards the very hall that his lover had led him down so long ago. The dust had resettled, there were not even the tracks left from his first arrival. Through the hall he went, taking a turn, casting the spotlight's shimmering white light upon the relics within. There was such stillness here, and it was as if the place was caught in time, permanently stuck in the moments before its demise. Here, it rotted, slowly, forgotten by all but him even though he had never known it for what it had been. . .

This had once been the epitome of society, he thought to himself, bitterly, standing upon the now flattened plain of what had been a city. A city that had once surrounded and supplied the once even greater spires laid just before him in the scant distance. Once great, he reminded himself, faded aureate optics flicking up, traveling to the tips of the spires of what had once been the Towers, once reaching into azure blue skies, now, only reaching up towards somber grey clouds. No longer were the Towers beautiful, if anything, they were horribly ugly. No longer were they shining, glittering and immaculate. Blackened and decrepit now were they, and some had even crumbled and fallen to the ground sprawled over some vaulted roof that was bared to the grey sky above. Others still stood, and others were crooked or leaning and would surely fall in the subsequent years.

To him, it seemed a reminder of what happened with the follies of the ignorant. Oh, they had all believed they were so safe in their crystalline palace, yet glass did break so very easily. Perhaps it was his fault, but it would have fallen one way or another, he thought, striding forward. These Towers and he seemed one in the same, an allusion to each other, and both an unbelievable testament of what they had once been so many years ago.

Eleven years, eleven years ago, he had been in a world of bliss, here, everything perfect, and falling in love with a mech whom he should not have. Here he stood, where no one would have believed that he had once been a Noble of Cybertron. His features were haggard, gaunt, and his paint was scrapped, scuffed, not to mention that most of his shoulder plating on one arm was completely ripped off, even exposing some of the vulnerable protoform tissue beneath. Darkened violet liquid touched blue and white painting, or what was left of it. He was none to sure what was his own mech blood and what was not, but it was not as if he cared.

What was there to care about? In those eleven years, one thing after another had been stripped from him until he was left with his most precious of his possessions; His bondmate. Now, now he was alone, Hound was _gone_. Dead was Hound in the crossfire from trying to escape one of the Autobot strongholds in its throes of demise. Mirage had been in Iacon at the time, where he had collapsed in agony, and had managed to survive and recover just before the Decepticons had taken it too by storm. There was no point in fighting, Mirage had believed, once Hound was dead, so he had left in the middle of battle. Now he was left to the storm of his insanity, no longer was their a hand to guide and soothe, to keep those nasty things from consuming him that had been so inflicted upon him nine and a half years ago. Had that mech not been dead, Mirage might have tried to kill himself, but no, Jazz had been killed by Sideswipe two years ago.

Pity, the once noble had wanted that honor himself. Yet now, there was absolutely no meaning to his existence now without his bondmate and his ember still felt like it had been freshly rent open. The more sardonic side of him told him that this is what he had wanted. Pure freedom, there was no one there to tell him what to do and where he could go and could not go. There were no orders, no one lording over him, no one playing him like a puppet and yet, without Hound, it was all pointless.

Slowly, he stepped forward, glass, metal, this and that, crunching under his pedes no matter what training he had. Making his way forward, he strode to the highly arched structure that had been the central entrance of the Towers. So grandiose it had been, but now , now, it was just a tattered relic that was a mournful gateway to the mausoleum within. Only the smallest shards of crystalline glass hung upon their frames and structures, dull and misted over by storms that had passed over in the years. It seemed not long ago in some ways since he had parted from this page in his life, while in other ways, it seemed like an eternity and a year since he had set foot here. When he had left, never seeing quite all the Towers had suffered, he had not long been an adult Cybertronian. Now, he felt like he was ancient, even though he was not a very old mech at all, though neither young. . . Debris littered plaza floors that had once been vibrant, now stripped of color. Carefully he navigated though, not wanting to step on anything to sharp lest he aggravate his physical situation.

No, he did not want to do that, not yet. As free as the once noble seemed, he knew he was being pursued. What was the term the again? Oh, that's right, he thought, a criminal of war was what they called him. The Decepticons would do their best to find him, and right now, he was in poor condition. While Mirage wished to die, as he moved forward, being imprisoned by the Decepticons and forced to endure was not the way he wanted to go. Yet he didn't have the nerve to just end it himself, which he attributed to his noble upbringing of cowardice and uncertainty. More things cracked beneath his pedes, and now and again, he looked down, seeing mainly debris, but now and again some personal artifact was tossed in. An emberling's toy; rusted and broken, a glass; fluted but now shattered, a data pad; worthless and devoid, all of those things and more he seen on the grounds of where the foyer had been leading into the grand entrance. Well aware was Mirage to the creaks and moans uttered by the dilapidated palace in its sung funeral dirge. Closer he moved down that central hall, leading to the main dome, or whatever remained of it. In his mind's optic he could remember just how large it was, one could easily fit a small town beneath it, and it had loomed so high, beautifully letting in light from its not quite opaque covering spanning the space. . . It awaited him, like a gateway into his own personal Hades.

Quiet, still, the only sound was the sound of wind, and it was quickly ebbing away as he descended the spiral stairs that led to that place where Sunstorm had taken him out of the cold so long ago. Injured, he had been, with damage to his wing, his arm after a botched attempt to recover data nearby had brought Skyfire upon him. Skyfire, whom he had once thought of as a friend, Skyfire, whom he remembered not with a single fond memory, Skyfire whom was dead now by dead Sunstorm's hand, something Starscream was grateful for. Had it not been for Sunstorm, he feared he would've died or worse that day.

The floor was just slightly damp, causing the floor, dust-laden, to appear clumpy, almost slimy, but Starscream had long lost his aversions to such things. One couldn't be so weak tanked in times of war, and while it seemed over, the snowy mech knew that it would be no easy road from here. Sardonically, he even thought that the easy part was over. The flyer was quietly appreciative of the construction of the stairs as he made his way down. They were chiseled right into the cave, right into the material and structure, stable, and safe, even when worn. Really, the only risk seemed to be collapse, but even that seemed negligible. Still, Starscream seemed uncaring of such, more intent upon this little excursion of his into a brief-not-even-day of his past.

He had not come alone to Kaon, even though he was now alone, for the moment at least, instead, it had been excursion of two. Perfect timing it had seemed, Sideswipe too, his comrade and brief lover, had wished to visit Kaon or what remained of it. Yet for Sideswipe, it was his home, Starscream thought as the stairs ended, leading towards what had been the commissary. For a moment, the pale seeker felt his throat cables tighten as the flood light cast its pearly glow upon the scene, and he could feel the liquid forming at his optics; liquid that should've been for cleaning his optics, but instead were a symbol of his mournful expressions. There, across from the stairwell, laid the table and two chairs that Sunstorm had set up those ten years ago.

They were like monuments there, dust clinging to them, resolute, and for a moment, it brought him back to the past. He knew, that just down the hall, lay that barracks where they had rested, where Sunstorm had made love to him for the second time. There had been a connection then, and he remembered how he had worried that he had been just another of the yellow and orange seeker's flings. How wrong he had been, so gladly wrong, he had been, he thought, as a sad smile bloomed upon his lips. Little orbs of dust floated in the still air as he stood there, quiet, his hand wrapped around the handle of the spotlight still as he let his cerulean blue optics take in all of the scene before him.

Finally, after what seemed a small eternity, the winged mech stepped forward, not watching as those little puffs of dust seemed to pull and waver in their course as he stirred the air. So concentrated on his purpose, his reverie, that he did not even stipulate how similar the darkened room and its little dust faeries seemed an allusion to the universe around them. Neither did he have a lingering thought upon the way more dust swirled into the air as he strode the distance between the entry of the stairs to that table. Slowly, he sighed, exhaling warm air out of his intakes, letting it billow into the cool air of the carved out room. There he stood now, before that table, a table, that now, to him, seemed like some stone tablet lacking an inscription. Yet, soon it wouldn't, soon it would bare the epitaph that he had so yearned to write to his long lost lover.

A slender hand reached out, a single digit cast out, the others curled to his palm as he pressed the pad of it to dust covered surface beneath. Air stilled in his intakes, causing the small excess of heat to travel through his frame as his optics were alighted only on his digit. Another still moment passed before he started. Each line of each letter he wrote in the most deliberate fashion he could, pushing the dust up, some of it side to side of each digit; like valleys between mountains, while yet some of it flew up into the air. Soon, words were forming, the contrast between the dust and the now bared surface of the table ever so clear as he wrote his undying affection to the one he had lost. A shiver passed over his frame, around his waist, his backstrut, and he could swear, that for those moments, that Sunstorm was pressed to him, arms wrapped around his waist, broad frame pressed against his back. It was surely his imagination, but he could not help but whisper that smallest of acknowledgements, "Sunstorm. . ."

It was just as large as he remembered it, goliath even, yet, not at all the same scene that he remembered it. Once, it had been bright, vivid, painted with fresco and murals, even mosaics, now, only a few tattered and ruined visages graced the lower wall. Above, the skeletal remains of the dome remained, a few sheets of crystalline glass still holding to their weathered frames. Yet, more of those squares were bare and empty, stripped of their coverings, open to the grey sky above. Mirage's optics, once a bright golden like that of electrum blades, now pale, flicked up, watching as errant drops of water dropped from the frames in slow freefall towards the floor, only to land in puddles where the finest of tile had once glittered. Over the years, the floor had been weathered, now uneven, patches of bare foundation showing, in places it was cracked from the gradual shift of Cybertron below. Silence accosted him as he continued forward, stepping in several puddles as he went, the acid now rendered inert after standing for some hours.

Dusted and grime covered glass littered the floor, and everything had the strangest stillness about it. It seemed hard to believe that only some ten, maybe eleven years had passed since the massacre at the Towers. No, it rather looked as if several millennia had passed since that had happened. Towards the back of the Dome, across where he stood, he could see the lift system crashed and jumbled like broken playthings. He could still remember the last time he had stepped off it, with Hound no less.

Now, most of it had crashed to the ground, the clear tubes of its systems crashed about, the lift itself half on its side in the whole mess. For a moment, it was quiet, but it was only quiet for a moment more. Each step made a crunch, resounding in the domed structure as if it were an amphitheater. Then again, it had been constructed to have excellent acoustics. How many nobles had once been under the glassine structure of the dome of the Towers past? How many little parties had gone on under it? How many nobles had eventually died beneath it? It had been a bloodbath, and it was mainly to blame on him. Why, his own hand had even committed the first murders. . . Wincing, he cast a look down at his hand, drawing into a tight fist. It seemed now like it had all been for naught. He had sacrificed his world to be with Hound, he had sacrificed his world for the eventual promise of freedom. Oh, he was free, least for the moment, but what was prized most had been stolen from his grasp, that which he desired more than freedom; Hound.

Swallowing, he could feel his ember constrict painfully, and he couldn't help but lift his previously fisted hand to his chest plate, rubbing at it to attempt to assuage the pain. It was as if half of him was missing, a hole ripped into the very stream of his ember. A pained moan left his lips as his optics narrowed, slightly did he sway, but he forced himself to stop. There were still things to do; he could not die, not yet, soon, but not yet. There was no desire to access the Towers proper, that had not been his desire, no; he did not even wish to glance upon the silly material wealth which he had once owned if his own room still existed. No, there was some place other. Moving through the glass, the debris, he moved steadily, deliberately over it, heading towards the sections reserved for the servants and other attendants for the nobles. How many times had he once stolen off to this sector that most nobles would've lifted their nasal ridges to? Many times, he thought, and they had been such carefree times, times when he worried about little except getting out of the Towers.

That old proverb hit him, that one of, "Be careful what you wished for. . ." Now, now in some ways, he wished those days could've gone on forever, that sordid little affair of his and Hound's. It was long over now he mused as he crested a pile of winded debris, slipping under the frame and past the buried threshold of the servants' hall. A round hall, following around the dome into another building, he went, looking to the side, looking out the now opened side of the hall. Windows had been there before, windows that went from his hip up to the high ceiling. Most were gone, just frames left and a few lingering shards here and there. Everything seemed so grey, when in his memories; it had been so bright and vivid.

He could remember all the nights, his electro disruptor hiding his frame and visage as he crept down, avoiding any who might hear him, all so he could spend a night with Hound. Finally, finally, he came to that door, shut, but he knew it was the one. This had been the room that Hound had stayed for those months that had nearly formed a year, nearly, not quite. Lifting both hands, he pressed them to the door, leaning forward so he could place his helm against the flat of the closed door. A choked sigh left him, one that threatened to turn into tears, and quickly so. With each passing minute, hour, day, and week, he was spiraling out of control, losing himself to a misery that he had thought been extinguished. The notion of never seeing Hound again seemed horrible, the worst thing to ever imagine. At least in that dank cell at the bottom of Iacon, he was comforted with the fact that Hound was still alive, even if he was afraid at that time that Hound might not come back for him. Yet now, the future seemed even darker now.

Drawing a hand back, he fisted it, before pounding against the door. Once, twice, three times, each sound dull but carrying in the deathly quiet of the Towers. A sob left him, and he could feel the tears at his optics slipping down his scarred cheeks, appearing from under the mask that he wore now to conceal the ugliness beneath. After a moment, he grabbed hold of himself, pulling himself back from the brink, the cusp of his psyche, pushing his hands out to right himself from the position he had taken against the door. Swallowing, the agonized mech drew his worn digits to the seam of the door, curling his digits around it, wedging them in slowly. It felt like it took an eternity, but finally, finally the door gave way with a metallic squeal, slowly opening to the gateway he sought. . .

Light was falling upon him again, his frame glimmering in the late afternoon sunlight. The epitaph was finished, completed, etched in the thick dust and black down below. The wind billowed all around, touching to his plating in a myriad of soft tendrils. His lover had always enjoyed cool morning air, and though it wasn't quite morning any longer, it had the feel about it none the less. There had been so many mornings that he would rise to find the other half of their berth just slightly cooled off from Sunstorm rising to greet the morning sun. Of course, Starscream would rise then, would then seek out the yellow and orange seeker whom always would be at the far end of the flight bay, arms crossed, optics off, just reveling in the feel of morning air. Of course, that was Starscream's queue to stride up to the mech, wrap his arms around his waist and beg the mech to take him back to berth. Sunstorm always complied, just needing that cool breeze in his senses in those early hours.

Every mech had his tick, his idiosyncrasies, and so Starscream had come to love that about Sunstorm, just like he had loved everything else about the mech. There would be mornings where that roguishly handsome seeker would not just take him back to berth, but make love to him as well. Those were his favorite mornings, there in the quiet of everything, Sunstorm atop him, or him atop Sunstorm, their bodies working in absolute time is the most maddening rush of pleasure he could ever imagine. They would kiss each other all over, rub each other's wings all while their hips moved together, Sunstorm buried deep within him. . . That sort of interfacing shared seemed both slow and fast, and entirely passionate. There were times when Starscream could still feel Sunstorm's gracious lips upon his throat, kissing and breathing out those hot tendrils of steam against every bit of cabling that the mech could get his mouth upon. Other mornings, the snowy mech would wake up swearing there was a warm frame next to his. It was bitter to find that the spot next to him was cold as ice, or might as well have been. Ten years, and there were still times he'd wake up like that, only to end up sobbing himself back to recharge. Sometimes it got so bad he sought solace in Sunstorm's old trine mates, now his trine mates, Thundercracker and Skywarp, who missed the mech terribly as well.

Surely, he knew he would never quite recover from Sunstorm's death. The snowy mech knew that he was supposed to bond with the yellow and orange mech, that the mech had been destined to be his bondmate, yet he had been stolen from him. A sigh broke his vocalizer, drawing a pale, slender hand up his chassis, touching it to the place where his ember lurked down below. His ember had been meant for Sunstorm's, and yet it would never know that joy of being bonded. Starscream had tried to find love in others, but all he could see was Sunstorm, projecting that mech into others, and yet it never was Sunstorm, he could not be replaced.

The room was still, so perfectly still, and as soon as he had stepped in, dust had swirled in his wake. No longer did he try to restrain his emotions, and tears freely flowed down his cheeks that were scarred, gaunt, and worn. It was a simple room, but Mirage had long given up his disdain for simplicity. If anything, those things of lavishness caused the utmost disgust in him. Yet here, this simple room, not too large, but neither small, seemed the most perfect place; if only it was 11 or so years ago, it would've been perfect. About now, Hound would be returning from what ever errand the other nobles had kept him tied up in. Usually tracking for some hunt, usually, but sometimes they had the green mech fixing that or hauling some heavy part. Just about now, Hound would be making off with a small stash of energon. Just about now, he, himself, would be climbing through the window at the far side of the room. It was closed, the glass uncracked, but filmed over with the age's grime and dust.

With heavy pedes, pedes that felt like solid lead, did he inch into the room, so still, so preserved, but so lost at the same time. It took a small eternity, but he managed to get to the window, and with once smooth digits, he touched at the sill of the window and the place just afterwards. There, still, after so many years, were the most minute little streaks of paint. It was blue, an indigo blue, a color he once wore, and close to the color he now wore. Such a bright hue was an expensive shade, and one that was far greyer, plainer was what coated his plating. The weakest of smiles touched to his lips, only a moment before it turned into a sob. Memories played through his CPU, all those reckless nights ago, when his biggest concern was being caught in the arms of a commoner, and not being on the run from Decepticons and wondering how he would go on. Oh, he had been so clueless, he thought bitterly, but ignorance truly was bliss. A part of him was always disgusted by what a petty creature he had been, with his lavish little trinkets, but a part of him wished for that life, just so he could relive those carefree months spent with the mech that would become his bondmate.

The feel of Hound was still so distinct in his CPU, so distinct that he could still feel the mech, hear him, touch him and taste him. It was as if the tracker was truly part of him, but that did not assuage his agony, if anything, it made it all the more poignant. Never did the memories cease, and even now, his optics stared ahead, unfocused, dull, remember a night of theirs spent together. A shiver passed through him as the memory of those hands, large, rough, but gentle, touching over his plating, teasing this, teasing that.

Lost, Mirage lifted a hand, touching it to his undamaged shoulder, as the memory continued and he knew it was an old one, his plating had been so thin, so much so that every touch from Hound was like fire. The memories were beautiful, but painful at the same time, because there would never be another memory of Hound there, what he had, was all he had. Yet they were to be cherished, for what ever time he had left. . . The memory persisted, enveloping him as he stood there at that dingy old window, the slow movements that had been much faster when they had taken place, but now he savored them. Undulations of his frame and that of his bondmates, moving in time. The pleasure; heady, strong, even potent, as Hound nipped at the cables in his neck. In time with that memory, he couldn't help but run his digits over the cables in his neck, pinching at them as if they were denta. A sigh broke his cracked lips, as his imagination ran free. Him, laying down, Hound atop him, that comfortable weight comforting and soothing him. In his little fantasy, the last two weeks had not happened, they never would. Hound was there, against him, touching him, alive and well.

Before he had known it, he was making slow steps towards the berth, dust laden, but familiar as those images wove their spell upon his addled CPU. One moment, lips were on his neck, the next they were upon his chin, then even upon his lips. A soft moan, broken, weak, left his vocalizer as his fantasy continued, the frame of the larger mech's upon his. His legs were spread, Hound between him, pushing deep into him, that passionate pleasure thrumming through every inch of circuitry in his frame. At times their lips would lock, exhaling heated air upon each other's lips. Slender but beaten hands reached upon the berth as his fantasy persisted, and he found himself laying his tired frame upon it. Tears flowed down his cheeks, freely, as he let himself curl into ball, an allusion to the way his battered psyche was wrapping itself in its own little world. Soon he would rest, he thought distantly, his aureate optics dimming as the moments ticked by slowly. . . Rest, rest so sweet, claimed him in that relic of his past. . .

After nearly an hour, an hour of standing in quiet requiem, did Starscream finally stir from his reverie. The sun was brilliant overhead, alighting the rusty cliffs and mountains of the area surrounding Kaon. Soon, he would need to meet back up with Sideswipe. Soon, but not yet, no, instead, he knelt down, seating himself on the worn floors, and waited. Sitting there, basking in the sunlight, it was as if he were merely waiting for Sunstorm to return to him, as if the mech would appear, yellow paint gleaming in the sun, to shoot out from a cloud bank before ascending. Yet, in a sense, he really was waiting.

Ignited as Vosian, but raised under the crystalline tiers of Crystal City, he had subscribed to few tenants of Vosian beliefs, yet there was one he held tight to. Sometimes he chided himself, citing that it was something only to make him feel better, that it was illogical little fallacy, but was there really any wrong in that? Did it really injure him to deny something as spiritual as that one little belief? No. The belief, that, somewhere, out there, Sunstorm had been reignited, soothed him, soothed him even more when coupled with his lover's last words.

"I'll come back, I love you," had been the last words off of those lips spattered with violet, as the yellow mech had laid in his arms, his ember expiring right as Starscream had held him.

Leaning back, Starscream let his azure optics drift into the sky overhead, a vivid blue for once, only smattered with a few puffs of lazy white clouds. The breeze was nice, and he leaned back, his hands on his thighs as he let it curl around him. Vosian beliefs said that all were reignited, that no mech truly died, especially those who were still tethered to the living world by a lover. . . Someday, maybe when he was the age that Sunstorm had been, he'd find the mech in another life, but for now, he would mourn. Never had he had quite that chance to mourn his lover, things had moved so quickly as they had from the day after Crystal City's burning. In the scheme of things, his time with Sunstorm was little more than a flicker of an optics, but that lone flicker was the cherished time in his life and it would continue to be. Several tears had started down his cheeks as he let the day move around him, as if he, Starscream, were another of the lonely relics that remained there, slowly disappearing, almost forgotten, but not quite, not yet at least. . .


End file.
